


Up in Smoke

by GiveMeHeresy



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Divergent, Non-binary protagonist, Other, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, past trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 04:26:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18613123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiveMeHeresy/pseuds/GiveMeHeresy
Summary: Solas resigns himself to companionship with Ashariel Lavellan in order to observe the Anchor and its effects on them, but the Herald turns out to be more intriguing than he initially considered, and their time together begins to turn into something else.





	Up in Smoke

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying this again too.
> 
> Ash is non-binary and uses they/them pronouns bc Solas isn't str8 and Weekes is a coward.

This can’t end well.

 

Although Solas has a plan laid out in his mind with as much detail he’s been provided, uncertainty plagues him as he looks down at the elf collapsed on the dungeon floor, their left hand illuminating the stone with sickly green light.

 

He sits beside them, legs crossed and hands in his lap, while his staff lies on the floor behind him. The Templars with him have yet to take their hands off the hilts of their swords for even a second, their eyes burn into his skin worse than if he were to put his hands into the flames of the room’s torches.

 

The tension in the room contributes to his self-doubt, but the circumstances aren’t in his favor if there are several men ready to swipe his head off his shoulders should he make one wrong move whenever their prisoner’s hand sparks with fury. Even though their swords are sheathed, they may as well be at his neck. They surely feel no different about their prisoner.

 

The individual’s breathes are shallow, their shoulders shake, and their skin is ghastly pale - little to no improvement from the state they were in when he began his observation. Sometimes their eyebrows twitch and they mumble something he can’t make out. He assumes nightmares, or the effect of a piece of the Fade being imbued into their palm...or a combination of both. He can imagine the restless, more volatile spirits that remain in the area find the elf easy prey.

 

However, Solas can’t allow himself to do much more than sit, watch, and wait. He doubts that those who have essentially become his captors would permit him to regardless. Nonetheless, he finds himself wondering how a random Dalish mage went about acquiring the mark.

 

The door opens, and Solas looks up to see the Seeker and the hooded woman enter the room. He takes his staff from behind him and rises to his feet with a small bow of his head. The Seeker’s attention is locked on the prisoner as she approaches.

 

“They still haven’t woken?”

 

“As I’m sure you know, Seeker -” Solas straightens his clothes with one hand and holds his staff upright with the other, shoulders held high, “- living beings are not supposed to travel the raw Fade. It’s a miracle they’re alive at all; it will be even more of a miracle if they regain consciousness.”

 

They make eye contact. His gaze wouldn’t waver if it weren’t for the other woman in the room, who stands closer to the prisoner.

 

The Seeker crosses her arms as her suspicious expression turns into a glare. “Has their condition at least improved?”

 

“A bit of their color has returned, but there have been no other changes. I’m doing all that I can.”

 

She frowns, then moves past him to examine the prisoner herself. Solas tenses as she stands at the prisoner’s side, along with the hooded woman. The knuckles on the hand that clutches his staff turn white. The prisoner remains inert, unaffected by the chagrin felt by everyone else in the dungeon.

 

He pictures the women attempting to jolt them awake, with her hands around their shoulders or a kick to the stomach. He’s not sure what he’d do if that did happen. If he were to do anything, he’s not powerful enough to get away with it.

 

Solas shuts his eyes for a moment. Not yet.

 

His fears prove false as the Seeker turns and steps away from the prisoner with a scoff. Her companion does the same. The hooded woman raises her head with a grim countenance.

 

“And if they don’t wake up?”

 

His eyes open, although he does not look at either of them. “To hazard a guess: the Breach will spread until the Veil is no more.”

 

“That means the world would end,” the Seeker ways, “which we will not allow.”

 

 _Fate is not so easily controlled by the whims of men,_ Solas wants to say, but more than that, he wants the both of them to leave so he can focus. The two women exchange whispered words as they do so. The Templars shut the door behind them.

 

One of the others in the room clears his throat, before silence returns.

 

Solas sighs as he sets his staff on the floor again and resumes his position next to the prisoner. Perhaps he should try the Fade once more, but he doubts that whatever spirits haven’t been driven away by the chaos of the Breach would be willing or even able to help him...and there’s still the risk of one of the Templar’s thinking he’s possessed if he tries to commune with them in his regular fashion.

 

But he has to try something.

 

He rests his hands in his lap, lowers his head, and lets the gentle crackle of the torches guide him into the edge of consciousness.

 

As before, the Fade grants him neither respite nor answers.

 

-

 

A shriek tears Solas back into the waking world.

 

He opens his eyes to the sight of their prisoner awake, doubled over, and clutching their hand as it shoots out bolts of green light. He darts forward without a second though and grabs onto their marked hand.

 

His eyes narrow in focus. Green light pours out from his own hands to envelope the prisoner’s, but much cooler and softer in shade than what the mark producers. He ignores the clank of Templar armor and weapons, while the voice of the prisoner dies into a whimper, then nothing.

 

The light dissipates, and Solas raises his eyes to meet theirs. The expression on their face is vacant, while sweat and the traces of tears drip down their cheeks. One of the Templars mutters something to another, before he promptly leaves the room. The others make no moves towards them, but now the prisoner is awake; the pressure is enough to form a knot in Solas’ neck.

 

He sits up and slowly lets go of their hand. They brace their palms against the floor and whip their head around the room.

 

“What...” Panic livens what he can see of their face. “...what’s...going on? What happened to...the Conclave?”

 

“Destroyed,” Solas interrupts.

 

He may as well be blunt.

 

Their head snaps back to him. “What did you say?!”

 

“The conclave was destroyed.” He shifts his weight onto one knee and lowers his head to put them at a more equal level. “The exact cause is as of yet unknown. You are the sole survivor, and the mar on your hand that was just causing you a great deal of pain is undoubtedly connected to it.”

 

The prisoner goes still.

 

“No.”

 

Their expression starts to crack and contort in such a way that he actually feels a pang of guilt. Their stare pierces directly through him as they clutch the sides of their head, although the chains attached to their wrists make the motion difficult. “No...no no no no...”

 

Solas can only watch as they curl in on themselves. He thinks to put a hand on their shoulder, but they likely don’t want to be touched. Their denial descends into whimpering, then sobs. He closes his eyes and lowers his chin in some small respect to whatever or whoever they’re mourning.

 

However, they are given little time to do so - the door to the room slams open again, and the prisoner’s head snaps around to the doorway, where the silhouette of the Seeker and the hooded woman stand once more. Solas shoots to his feet so fast that he forgets to bring his staff with him.

 

Oddly enough, the Seeker faces him first: “You - wait outside.”

 

Solas opens his mouth to protest, but with the constrained rage in her fists, he thinks better of arguing with her now that their scapegoat is finally awake.

 

He glances at the prisoner. They look at him pleadingly, but there’s nothing he can do while in a room full of people ready to shut him down in a split-second. Solas drops his gaze and makes his way to the door.

 

The coldness of regret hits him as he exists the room, and the Seeker speaks her first words to the prisoner:

 

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now.”

 

Someone bangs the door shut behind him.


End file.
